The First Victim

by Ridley Pearson

  ‘‘Brian.’’ He fingered a carved piece of black stone a friend had brought back from Egypt. He held it upside down and admired its base. He offered her a small pamphlet that she accepted. ‘‘You asked Adam Talmadge about this: investigative techniques used in our preliminary interviews.’’

  ‘‘Iasked him about the training to identify political prisoners and victims of torture.’’

  ‘‘Political refugee interviews,’’ he corrected. ‘‘We’re not the bad guys, Ms. McNeal.’’

  ‘‘You’re part of the system . . . Brian. And the system is part of the problem.’’

  ‘‘My trouble with this view,’’ he said, his inflection implying a question. ‘‘Looking down on something is not the same thing as looking it in the eye.’’

  ‘‘Lessons in perspective?’’

  He offered: ‘‘How would you and your cameras like to pay a visit to Fo-No, our Fort Nolan detention facility? A chance to see our operation firsthand?’’

  ‘‘Look it in the eye. Gain a little perspective?’’

  ‘‘You got it.’’

  ‘‘And what do Ioffer you in return?’’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘‘Nothing.’’

  ‘‘I’m supposed to buy that?’’

  ‘‘Does it sound like I’m selling? Are you always so skeptical?’’

  ‘‘You came here to drop off a pamphlet and offer me access to your detention facility? I’m supposed to accept the Santa Claus routine?’’

  ‘‘We have to be enemies on this? Tell me why.’’

  ‘‘You can’t buy cooperation from me,’’ she warned. ‘‘A pamphlet

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  and a visit of Fort Nolan and I’m supposed to give something back—

  withhold a story, supply you with sources—what is it your boss is after?’’

  ‘‘We could discuss Melissa Chow.’’

  ‘‘They shared that with you?’’

  ‘‘A missing persons case believed tied to illegal aliens?’’ he asked rhetorically. ‘‘You want SPD including us, believe me. And the FBI and the King County Police. There is talk of a task force. It’s our job to find this woman.’’

  ‘‘A job? Isuppose so,’’ she said, mulling this over.

  ‘‘Let’s talk about this whistle-blower.’’

  ‘‘Oh . . . okay. Iget it,’’ she said sarcastically. ‘‘Terrific.’’

  ‘‘Do you?’’

  ‘‘They couldn’t get the name out of me, so now it’s your turn to try.’’

  ‘‘You want to find her, don’t you?’’ He didn’t deny her accusation.

  ‘‘We need to question this guy. He could help clarify the details, give us the specifics you’re unable to give us.’’

  ‘‘Or is it the videos?’’ she asked. ‘‘That’s it, isn’t it? They’ve sent you to try to talk me out of the videos. Well, forget it.’’ She immediately regretted mention of the videos because his florid skin and tightened expression informed her that he’d never heard of them, though he recovered quickly.

  He said, ‘‘The videos are especially important to us.’’

  ‘‘Ijust bet they are,’’ she said.

  ‘‘They show what? People? Buildings? The container? The ship?’’

  ‘‘Nice try.’’

  ‘‘How much are you willing to gamble?’’ he interrupted. ‘‘Your friend has disappeared. The ship captain has been killed. Do you want to be next in line?’’

  ‘‘Are you threatening me?’’

  ‘‘Just trying to scare you,’’ he said. ‘‘Listen, Ido this for a living—

  investigate illegal alien rings, the Chinese mob, the gangs. It may be hard to conceive of, but just maybe I’ve had a little more experience at it than you. And as for your paranoia . . . Idon’t operate the way

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  the cops do. There’s no reason for me to expose your sources or what’s on that video. Iwork a network of informants and snitches. Iprobably get ninety percent of my information from them. Would it make sense for me to expose my sources? Your sources? My guys wouldn’t trust me after that. Think about it! Do you have any idea what it is you’re investigating? No, you don’t. They made your friend disappear, Ms. McNeal. Think about it! Where’s that leave you, you go nosing around?’’

  ‘‘I’ll read the pamphlet. Thanks for stopping by.’’

  He was not to be deterred. He apparently felt obliged to educate her. She wanted him out of there. ‘‘The vast majority of illegals come across the Mexican border—and that includes Asians and East Europeans. Most arrive owing at least half the fee charged to smuggle them into the country—five to ten thousand dollars. The men are shipped off to migrant labor camps, the girls to brothels and sweatshops. They’re kept in service until they earn out the balance owed. It’s not pretty.’’

  Was that where Melissa was, she wondered. In some brothel or sweatshop? She cringed. ‘‘Are you trying to tell me someone’s turned Melissa into a sex slave?’’

  ‘‘These container ships go both ways, Ms. McNeal. You go poking around, you go stirring things up . . . With your looks you’d probably end up in Syria, the property of some prince. Is that hair natural? Blondes command a premium.’’

  ‘‘You’re threatening me?’’ she asked, astonished.

  ‘‘What is it with you?’’ he asked. ‘‘Am Ithe enemy?’’

  ‘‘Are you?’’

  Outside the huge plate-glass windows, a jet sank in the vast expanse of sky. It flew behind Brian Coughlie and out the other side of him, like some kind of magic trick.

  She said, ‘‘As a reporter you wonder what kind of person signs up to be an INS agent.’’

  ‘‘Is that right?’’ he said. ‘‘That’s funny, because as a federal agent you kinda wonder about people who make a business out of sabotaging your investigations and turning them into sound bites.’’

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  ‘‘No one’s sabotaging you.’’

  ‘‘You went after Adam Talmadge like he was the enemy,’’ he reminded. ‘‘You seem to forget it’s our job to save these people.’’

  ‘‘Save them or deport them?’’

  ‘‘Ididn’t invent the system,’’ he pointed out.

  ‘‘Just doing your job?’’ she asked sarcastically. His face burned red and he looked away angrily. He spoke to the back lights of the jet descending toward Boeing Field. ‘‘A pragmatist says my job is to offer people a chance at a new life; a pessimist says that I’m in the business of wrecking other people’s dreams. I live with it. Same as you. The press tears apart more lives than Iever will.’’

  ‘‘And where’s all that leave Melissa?’’

  ‘‘Ican help with that.’’

  She cautioned him again, ‘‘Iwon’t reveal my sources. Neither would you—you just said so yourself.’’

  ‘‘Trust me,’’ he said.

  She nodded faintly and whispered privately, ‘‘I’m working on that.’’

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  Lou Boldt and John LaMoia stood over the black, open mouth of the cemetery grave, looked down inside and took in the sight. The victim was an Asian female—Chinese. She was naked. Her toes, breasts and dirt-covered face protruded from the mud and sand that had been washed away by overnight downpours that continued intermittently. Her head was shaved. Boldt felt the familiar twinge that any contact with death delivered.

  She had been deposited in
to a hole in the ground that had been dug for a casket. Someone had hoped that casket would be lowered down on top of this woman, burying her forever in anonymity. LaMoia won every officer’s attention as he shouted orders. Boldt couldn’t take his eyes off the woman in the grave. ‘‘Where the hell is SID? Enlarge the perimeter tape to include the entire cemetery. I want the statement of the gravedigger who found her. Iwant somebody to get Stevie McNeal up here nice and quiet like. And Idon’t want another word of this going out over the radio. Got it?’’ Boldt turned to face LaMoia, and said in a normal voice, ‘‘Why is she so pale? Does she look right to you?’’

  LaMoia called out sharply to a pair of uniforms, ‘‘Somebody find a tarp! Let’s get a curtain up that the cameras can’t see past. Anyone not wearing gloves is going to be writing traffic tickets ’til Christmas.’’

  That sent them scurrying.

  When Doc Dixon arrived a few minutes later, he was helped down into the hole. Boldt gave him only a matter of seconds before asking,

  ‘‘How long has she been dead?’’

  Dixon’s low, sullen voice did not transmit well outside. ‘‘Give me a minute, would you?’’

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  ‘‘Does she look right to you?’’ Boldt asked.

  Dixon wore a windbreaker, gray flannels damp from the knees down, and a pair of ‘‘lab walkers’’—leather shoes with overly thick rubber soles. ‘‘They never look right to me. Give me a minute,’’ he repeated.

  ‘‘She’s too pale,’’ Boldt repeated for his colleagues. ‘‘And her breasts are all black around the nipple—What’s that about?’’

  Dixon was rarely terse with Boldt, but he snapped, ‘‘If you don’t mind?’’

  He let Dixon work the victim until he finally called up out of the hole, ‘‘Soles of her feet like elephant skin. I’m guessing she’s early twenties. Left ankle shows signs of ligatures.’’

  Daphne Matthews arrived. The team . . . Boldt thought. She wore an ankle-length trench coat and carried an open umbrella. She came and stood alongside Boldt, and as always, he noticed how strikingly handsome she was.

  ‘‘Zoo’s here!’’ a patrolman shouted from the distance, warning of the arrival of the media. The rain fell harder.

  ‘‘Maintain that crime line!’’ LaMoia shouted. ‘‘No one crosses except McNeal.’’

  Down in the hole, Dixon talked into a dictation device held in his meaty right hand to screen the rain.

  LaMoia asked Boldt quietly, ‘‘What’s she doing buried here like this?’’

  Boldt answered, ‘‘Hiding.’’ He looked up at the sea of headstones. Daphne picked up on this. ‘‘If there’s one, there may be others.’’

  LaMoia gasped, ‘‘More of ’em?’’

  ‘‘Visitor!’’ a patrolman shouted, indicating an umbrella approaching.

  ‘‘McNeal,’’ LaMoia said.

  Daphne complained, ‘‘Since when is graveside identification procedure? This is hardly fair to her. Did anyone think about her?’’

  ‘‘This was my call,’’ Boldt said.

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  sented on the other side of the glass in the morgue. That is procedure. A body found down in a muddy hole?’’

  ‘‘She’s a reporter,’’ LaMoia said. ‘‘She can handle it.’’

  ‘‘Punish the press? Is that the idea?’’

  ‘‘The idea,’’ Boldt said, ‘‘is to know what and whom we are dealing with, just as quickly as we can.’’

  Daphne hurried to intercept the approaching woman. ‘‘Listen,’’

  she said, unable to slow down McNeal, ‘‘we can do this downtown in a couple of hours. It doesn’t have to be now . . . like this. There’s a lot of mud. The face . . . it’s not that visible anyway.’’

  McNeal nodded, but kept walking toward the grave.

  ‘‘You’re protecting me?’’ Stevie asked. ‘‘From what?’’

  ‘‘It’s an awful sight. If it is your friend . . . this reporter . . . ’’

  ‘‘Then I’ve got to know,’’ Stevie said. She stopped short of the others and crossed her arms. ‘‘Thank you,’’ Stevie whispered to Daphne. They met eyes and Daphne understood she was going to go through with it.

  Stevie stepped up to the grave. LaMoia introduced her to Boldt who said, ‘‘Sorry for any inconvenience caused by the location.’’

  Stevie glanced at him, as yet unable to face the body down in that grave.

  ‘‘I’ve heard about you for years,’’ she said from under the umbrella.

  ‘‘Not all bad, Ihope,’’ Boldt returned.

  She hesitated and said, ‘‘No, not all.’’ She then inched toward the grave’s edge, her shoes sinking into the mud, dirt and gravel. She looked straight ahead for a moment, her eyes brimming with tears. She pinched her eyes shut, hung her head, and then opened her eyes slowly, her expression controlled and impassive.

  ‘‘It’s not her,’’ she said, exhaling in a long sigh. She turned and walked away. ‘‘Not her,’’ she repeated for all to hear.

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  Brian Coughlie answered his office phone, annoyed by the interruption until he identified the voice.

  ‘‘It’s me,’’ Stevie McNeal announced into the receiver. Coughlie felt a boyish flutter in the center of his chest. ‘‘Hello,’’

  he said.

  ‘‘Did Iinterrupt you?’’

  ‘‘No, no,’’ he lied—a way of life for him.

  ‘‘The police found a Jane Doe up on Hilltop. Shaved head and eyebrows. Ithought maybe you’d want to know.’’

  He was shocked by her call. He couldn’t think what to say. Stevie said, ‘‘She was meant to be buried underneath the casket. Maybe Melissa had caught on to this burial thing.’’

  Coughlie recalled Rodriguez’s warning that Stevie was a threat to them. He didn’t want to see her this way. A necessary distraction was more like it—someone he could use to their benefit, confirmed by this call.

  ‘‘We agreed to share,’’ she reminded. ‘‘The cops aren’t giving us anything. Whatever details you can find out . . . I’d appreciate it.’’

  ‘‘Sure thing.’’ He had no intention of trading in a vacuum. ‘‘You were going to consider sharing those videos with me.’’ If she didn’t share them soon, then Rodriguez was going to have to perform a break-in.

  ‘‘We might be able to arrange something,’’ she said.

  ‘‘I’ll get back to you,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I’ll be waiting.’’

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  Although procedure required an investigating officer to attend a victim’s autopsy, this requirement often amounted to cruel and unusual punishment. For Boldt, who understood perfectly well the need to protect the evidence’s chain of custody, it still seemed a waste of the officer’s time, because the surgical procedure could drag on for hours. He and his squad, like every other homicide squad in the country, had found ways around the requirement—attending the autopsy, but not start to finish, leaving the bulk of the cutting and sawing to the people in the white coats. But no matter what duration of time was actually spent in the tile room with the ME or one of his assistants, the assignment required a strong stomach—there was no way of avoiding at least a brief encounter with the pale and naked corpse of the bloated victim, whether bludgeoned, bullet-ridden or burned. Technically
, it was LaMoia’s investigation and therefore his autopsy, but Boldt filled in both to free up his sergeant who was busy with an unusual assignment and to gain firsthand knowledge for himself. The cadaver lay on the stainless steel table, drains beneath her feet and head, a hospital band around her ankle, the chalky discoloration of her bloodless skin, sickening. Her bald skull and shaved pubis held a dull smudge of growth and reminded Boldt of his wife during her chemotherapy. The two men in lab coats cleaned up the ligature marks, removed most of the mud, sand, and grass, the bugs, worms and weeds, bagging, labeling and indexing. All such physical evidence was destined for Bernie Lofgrin’s SID forensics lab back at Public Safety.

  Preliminary exterior examination of the cadaver continued for thirty minutes. While Boldt made phone calls from a wall phone, 130

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  Dixon spent equal amounts of time inspecting the cadaver’s head, genitals, hands and feet. It was ascertained that her chest showed an inflamed skin rash, that her extremities showed signs of postmortem frost burn—explaining the darkened skin on her breasts and toes. Her hands and fingers held lacerations and puncture wounds. A few minutes later she looked like something from Gray’s Anat- omy as Dixon used a scalpel to unzip her from collarbone to crotch with a sure and steady hand. There were cop stories about medical examiners using poultry scissors and chain saws, Skilsaws and power drills, not all of which were exaggeration. The procedure could run anywhere from forty-five minutes to several hours. Dry land jumpers, floaters and burns occupied the Worst of All Time list. Jane Doe, for all the tragedy of her young death, was not too bad in terms of the autopsy.

  Dixon opened her up like a frog in biology class, tucking one breast under the left armpit, the other under the right, calling out his observations for the sake of the video that captured the cadaver and the spoken dialogue for use in court if needed. He worked his trade—he took a liver plug, inspected her heart, emptied her stomach contents, manipulated her kidneys and finally cut open a lung—he called it ‘‘looking under the hood,’’ and sometimes slipped in other automotive analogies.

  Time crawled. Dixon mentioned bronchial occlusion, edema and renal failure.